


the sun sets once more

by intothenowhere (orphan_account)



Series: Many Pathways, Many Choices [4]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Canon Compliant, Comfort/Angst, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Introspection, Male-Female Friendship, Post-Order 66, Survivor Guilt, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-29 05:43:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18772372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/intothenowhere
Summary: The Corellian ale was thick with eye-watering spice, and burned all the way down, eating at her throat and chest. It tasted like bantha fodder, but it made her feel  which was better than the alternative.Or, the one where Volya Doneeta faces (some of) her Order 66 related trauma





	the sun sets once more

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are — yet another self indulgent fic where Voy gets to hang out with the Rebels Crew. Kudos to Braigwen for reminding me of this trumendous friendship and thus inspiring me to write again.
> 
> Writing this was surprisingly therapeutic for me, to be honest, for a variety of reasons. Slowly but surely finding myself in the habit of writing again is one of the best feelings ever.
> 
> General Misi belongs to Seraf Michael, Thof & Brider belong to Braigwen (shiningjedi), and Volya Doneeta, Eights & Rescue belong to moi.

"Can I ask a question?"   
  
Volya Doneeta shrugs, taking a long sip from her canteen. The Corellian ale was thick with eye-watering spice, and burned all the way down, eating at her throat and chest. It tasted like bantha fodder, but it made her  _ feel _  which was better than the alternative.   
  
"Why don't you have a lightsaber?" Kanan asks, taking the offered canteen and taking his own swig.    
  
Voy looks down at the metal rod hanging from Kanan's utility belt. He wore it so  _ proudly _ now, so honestly. She hates the envy that blossoms in her chest at the sight of it.

 

She leans her head back against the crate she'd commandeered for a backrest, looking up at the dusty red sky of Atollon, considering. It was a topic that was forever present in her mind — sometimes it was as quiet as a lothcat's pur, other times it was as loud as a rancor roar. 

 

Despite the years that spanned from here to now, Volya remembers carefully crafting and constructing her first sabers. Remembers designing them after seashells and coral, for Master Templii who'd brought her home. Adding strips of leather in honor of Brider Surris, her friend in the Archives.

 

Placing them in Rescue's wet, gloved hand as the artificial rain fell in fat drops all around them, the neon lights of Coruscant's street life leaving the world a kaleidoscope of color. Donning a cloak and seeking refuge on the lower levels, and everything that came after that.

 

There had been plenty of opportunities over the years for Volya to have constructed a new saber, and somehow she skirted around them. Even when Brider helped her find her kyber crystal on Iridonia, something got in the way of her constructing one.

 

The truth lands on her tongue, hard and chalky, like a bad bite of medicine. Volya swallows, answers— “I didn't deserve to make another one.”

 

Kanan looks up, eyebrows knitted in shock. “You were a true Jedi, why wouldn't you deserve another one?”

 

Volya takes the canteen from Kanan, and launches to her feet, unable to sit any longer. His concern is white noise to the Force as she gets dangerously close to the sensor markers. He needn't worry — of all the ways to die, eaten by spiders was the last on her list.

 

The sun is setting lazily, leaving the sky aflame. Volya watches, thin-lipped. “During the Clone Wars, I went on a mission, to Tython. I thought I was ready, I thought I could do well as a Sentinel and Archivist.”

 

She can remember the  _ smell  _ of Tython, as clear as though she was standing there now. The life mingled with the decay, the  _ musk.  _ Volya remembers the glee she had felt, at a new adventure — after so many months cooped up in the Temple, going on an exploration mission seemed like the best thing since sliced bread. 

 

“Learning what I did about the war, seeing how the Temple affected my friends, how it affected  _ me _ — I couldn't go back to the Archives, so my friend…” Volya's voice goes soft with memory, her vision blurs. “My friend, Misi, recommended my transfer as a diplomat.”

  
  


Kanan chuckles, “Yeah. I remember asking Knight Surris where you'd gone when she returned.” Though not facing him, Volya  _ sees  _ the grin that twists his expression: “Shame you did transfer, that left her with the solemn duty of answering all my questions.”

 

“Like Brider ever complained,” Volya scoffs. “Nothing she loved more than an inquisitive mind.” Her smile fades into a mere ghost. “I wanted to put Tython behind me, act like it hadn't shaken my confidence, so I threw myself at the shiniest, deepest most consuming distraction I could find.”

 

“Opera?” Kanan supplies with only a hint of irony.

 

“Politics,” Volya corrects, rolling her eyes. “It did nothing to alleviate my concerns about the Republic and the war. It merely increased them by a tenfold. My faith in every system I'd believed in had been shaken, and I wasn't sure how to move forward.”

 

She inhales shakily, “I spent my last years as a Jedi doubting everything I stood for, and then —” Volya hangs her head, unable to speak for a moment as she silently weeps. 

 

Kanan places a comforting hand on her shoulder and she instinctively leans into it. The next second, he's got her encompassed in an awkward hug. Volya inhales sharply, again and again, trying to stop the tears, humiliated at this show of utter weakness on her part. 

 

She squeezes her eyes shut, curling her tongue in her mouth as she tugs at the Force, pleading with it to calm the storm of emotion. It's sluggish, but slowly it flows through her, rejuvenating her bones, seemingly drying her tears.

 

Voyla inhales again, pulling away slowly from Kanan. His expression is soft, concerned but not pitying. He's dealt with this before, she knows — sees it in his eyes. 

 

“You good, kid?”

 

Volya nods, and replies shakily, “Yeah, yeah. It's just that...the last time I used my sabers — the last act I ever committed using them —” she wets her lips — “I killed my squad. My friends, my partners, my...fault.”

 

Kanan tilts his head in understanding. “You were with your diplomatic escort when the Order went through.” He shakes his head, squeezing her shoulders. “That was self defense, Volya.”

 

“Was it? I just — Eights  _ threw himself in front of me _ , to save me. I was so angry they killed him —” Volya shakes her head, casting the memory aside. “How could I make another saber again, knowing what I'm capable of?”

 

“Same reason Jedi have wielded them for millennia,” Kanan answers. “To shield others, to save who we can. Regardless of what you did to survive, you are a Jedi Knight.” His comm beeps, and a noise of frustration leaks out from his throat. “Ezra and Zeb are at it again —” Kanan looks up, questioning.

 

“Go,” Volya orders, swatting at him. “Keep them from burning the base down. I'll stay away from the scary spiders.”

 

“You'd better,” Kanan calls, already jogging back toward base. Volya watches him for a moment, before looking out toward the field beyond.

 

She reaches into her pocket, and pulls out a small object. It's small, perhaps as big as her thumb, and clear white. Completely innocuous for the power it's capable of.

 

“To protect those who can't protect themselves,” Volya vows, twisting the kyber crystal so that the setting sun hits it, setting it ablaze. She clamps her fist around it, bringing it to her lips.

 

She could be what the galaxy needed her to be — a friend, a soldier, a Jedi. 

 

She  _ would be. _

  
  
  
  



End file.
